In Merciful Hands
by sphinx01
Summary: Jazz and Ratchet indulge in a little playtime in the med bay... My first sticky fic.


**Author's Note:** I truly meant to write a serious, meaningful, Decepticon-centered fanfiction, but I seem to have suffered a hormonal overkill or something, because this is what my crazy brain came up with instead. Still, fact is that I immensely enjoyed (and am still enjoying) writing this, and I hope you will have some fun reading it. ;-)

This story is a multiple first time for me. It's my first PWP in the sense that the sex is not part of an underlying plot, but is there simply for its own sake. It's my first sticky fic, and it's also the first time I've written a medical kink. I'd therefore really like your honest opinion. Just fire away, folks! ;-)

**Warning:** Explicit interfacing, sticky, oral, medical kink, bad role-playing (on Jazz' part - Ratchet just _is_ a sadistic teaser ;p)

**Disclaimer:** I do not own The Transformers, and I do not make any money with this.

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><p><strong>In Merciful Hands<strong>

**Part 1**

**xxx  
><strong>

"You're late," Ratchet stated sharply.

Out of pure habit, Jazz ducked his head at the harsh greeting.

"Sorry, Doc," he murmured as the med bay doors hissed shut behind him, doing his best to look and sound as sheepish as possible. Ratchet threw him a dirty look.

"I'm sick and tired of always having to play hide and seek with you," he said as he punched his access code into the panel next to the entrance, sealing it off. "This maintenance is necessary, and it will be done. Do I make myself clear?"

Jazz nodded obediently. "Yes, Doc."

With a scowl and more force than necessary, the CMO drew back one of the silicone curtains that separated the small, private examination niches from the main room. He waited some astroseconds, glaring at his patient, then huffed in irritation when Jazz made no move to follow the unspoken command.

"Are you waiting for an invitation?" he asked pointedly.

Many vorns of Special Ops training had given Jazz perfect control over his features, but he still felt his faceplates twitch as he fought hard not to grin. He tiptoed past the incensed medic, concentrating on looking as anxious and distressed as a turbofox in a trap.

The niche, once Ratchet drew the curtain shut, was a tiny, confined space with only the sparest equipment. To one side there was a narrow work bench with an integrated computer terminal, and Jazz' spark gave a small pulse in anticipation of things to come at the sight of all the shiny instruments Ratchet had arranged there so neatly.

But what really drew his attention was the examination chair with its metal stirrups in the middle of the room. A soft smile graced his lips as he savored the first, gentle tingle of warmth that shivered along the seams of his interface panel.

Ratchet had taken a seat on the low swivel stool in front of the work bench, giving his equipment a final check. This was the moment where, as a good patient, Jazz should have been climbing into the chair to get ready for his examination.

Instead, he remained where he was, in the far corner of the tiny room, just as he knew he was expected to do.

And Ratchet waited just the perfect amount of time before he turned to favor his charge with a stern glare. Jazz faked a nervous wince, and to any casual bystander, the look on his faceplates had to be one of pure, pleading misery.

Ratchet sighed.

"This is not an execution, Jazz," he said with surprising kindness, getting up to close the small distance between them. "We've done this before, haven't we?"

A pleasant shudder ran through Jazz' frame when, before he could answer, the comforting gesture of Ratchet's hand on his arm turned into an enticing caress. The medic's fingers slipped up the curve of his shoulder strut, giving it a brief, gentle squeeze before following the line of a transformation seam down his chest plates to slowly trail across the red Autobot insignia.

"Don't worry," he purred. "We'll go ahead with this as we always do, and it will be over in no time, alright?"

Again, Jazz had to fight the urge to grin at the ill-disguised, playful mischief twinkling in Ratchet's optics. The medic's hand brushed one of his headlights tenderly and then slipped under what would be Jazz' bumper in his alt mode, easily locating one of his most receptive hot spots and stimulating it gently. Jazz' intakes hitched at the touch, and his high-performance engine gave an involuntary rev as his energy field surged and extended, pushing against Ratchet's.

"Whatever you say, Doc," he breathed.

With a smile, Ratchet offered him his hand to help him climb into the examination chair.

The few moments of fumbling it took to properly settle in never quite lost their awkwardness, and Jazz was grateful when Ratchet turned his back on him and politely pretended to be concerned with his instruments once more. Thus, he was able to take the time he needed to shift and wriggle into a reasonably comfortable position and to get his feet into the stirrups. His hands settled onto the armrests as he let his head sink back, and he cycled a slow, soft sigh to release the remaining tension from his hydraulics.

The quiet sound also served as a cue for his companion. Ratchet turned on his stool, and this time he made no effort to try and hide the smirk that curved his lips. He leaned back against the work bench, indulging in a nice, long look.

Had this been a regular maintenance job, Jazz would probably have told him to get the twist out of his circuits. But Pit, how could he not enjoy this, lying on his back helplessly subjected to Ratchet's every wish and whim, legs forced open and his interface array laid bare for the world to see... To know that he actually _was_ being watched only served to intensify the highly erotic appeal of the situation. He could _feel_ Ratchet's gaze travel up and down his body, following the smooth curves and angles of his chassis to settle on his lower half eventually, caressing the small cover panels lying nestled between his thighs. An automatic message popped up on his HUD, and he had to consciously override his processor's command to let both panels slide open.

No sense in spoiling the fun.

Ratchet seemed to have similar thoughts as he tore his optics away from Jazz with a visible effort. "Well," he commented briskly. "Let's get started, shall we?"

He pushed his stool forward to bring himself into position, and Jazz eagerly craned his neck cables for a better view. The sight of Ratchet's broad shoulder struts and proud, red chevron framed by the smooth triangle of his own thighs was simply too delicious to miss.

From the tray on his work bench, Ratchet selected a metal speculum and a syringe containing a clear, viscous fluid. Jazz stared in fascination as the medic squeezed a generous amount of the liquid onto the instrument and then started to oh so slowly rub it over the two metal halves with his free hand.

The sheer suggestiveness of the act was enough to make Jazz' cooling fans jump into action, filling the room with a soft hum. Behind his closed panel, he could feel his valve flex and clench in anticipation, eager to be given proper attention, and he actually had to bite back a low moan. Ratchet glanced up, and through the pleasurable haze that was beginning to settle upon him Jazz suddenly remembered the role he was supposed to play.

With some difficulty, he managed to reduce the power feed to his optical sensors so his visor would appear dimmed and flickering.

"I don't like this part," he said softly.

As good as the hot surge of Ratchet's energy field felt, it really wasn't much help in keeping up their little game. Nor was the medic's hand as it came to rest on Jazz' thigh, gently kneading the smooth metal before starting to draw little circles onto its inside that steadily edged closer to the heating cover panels.

"Just relax," he cooed soothingly, and Jazz shivered at the hint of static clouding his vocalizer. "I'll be gentle. Just open up when you're ready, okay?"

Jazz groaned in honest relief as he finally gave in to his CPU's demands. With a soft, rasping sound, his lower panel clicked open, revealing the delicate circuitry of his interface valve. The highly-tuned sensors immediately released a surge of tactile input into his neural net at the sudden draught of cool air against the hot surface, and even with his thighs spread like that, he could feel the warm wetness that had already pooled inside. Ratchet's little teasing session with the lube, he thought with a half-smile, had been purely for show. Where lubrication was concerned, the medic was unlikely to encounter any problems down there.

Said medic was watching him with glowing optics, drawing a deep draught of air into his vents to catch the unique scent of Jazz' fluids in his olfactory system. His fingers softly circled around the sensitive rim of the saboteur's valve, which reacted with a wishful twitch, before a gentle, well-practiced tug pulled the soft metal apart just enough to ensure a smooth entry. "This may be a bit cold," he murmured roughly, using the same words as during any normal examination, but he didn't give Jazz a chance to react. Before he could even activate his vocalizer, Ratchet was gently pushing the prepared device into his body.

The first few astroseconds of the cold metal invading his frame were always a bit unpleasant, but the discomfort faded quickly when Ratchet released his grip on the handle, allowing the instrument's blades to slowly open. Jazz' head rolled back against the neck-rest, intakes laboring as his inner walls were stretched and parted so nicely, gently yet persistently forced to accommodate the speculum's full diameter. Oh holy slag, did that feel good... His engine gave a short rev, and his cooling fans cycled up another notch.

Judging from the heat that poured off Ratchet's chassis, the medic wasn't much better off. He reached for his tray again, selecting a medical-type swab with a long, slender stem.

"Gonna do a visual inspection first," he explained, "and clean you up a bit." His energy field pulsed and throbbed, washing over Jazz' spread thighs in tingly waves that made them twitch eagerly. Jazz wondered briefly how his lover managed to keep his cooling fans in check, but all thought left him when Ratchet started to tenderly stroke the swab along the edges of his valve.

The soft material tickled his sensors with barely-there, feather light touches, dipped inside for a moment and teasingly brushed against his external sensor node, never stopping in its movement. Jazz groaned, gripping the chair's arms rests tighter, then sighed in pleasure when a slight shift in position allowed him to gently rock his hips up into the caresses. Ratchet's faceplates, when he glanced down briefly, were concentration personified, and beneath all physical pleasure, Jazz felt his spark pulse with warm affection for their medic.

Then, all of a sudden, something strange happened.

Jazz' concentration on the wonderful, warm desire tingling through his circuits was interrupted by an odd, prickling sensation in his valve. It started deep within, but quickly spread outwards, followed by a feeling of intense heat. Half surprised, half alarmed, he looked down to see what was going on, when out of nowhere a wave of such forceful, burning _lust_ crashed into his sensor grid it made his visor fritz out for an astrosecond. He gasped in shock, then yelped when a second surge immediately followed the first, tensing every strut and wire in his chassis to the point of near-pain. His cooling fans strove frantically to catch up with the excess heat, but to no avail, and the metal of the arm rests began to creak under his tightening grip. A deep shudder racked his whole body, and through the half-dozen warning messages on his HUD and the static clouding his vision, he could dimly make out the incredibly satisfied smirk on his companion's faceplates.

Slowly, his dazed processor came to the only possible conclusion: Ratchet, the Pit-spawned fragger, had spiked the lube.

With maddening calmness, the medic put the swab back onto the tray while Jazz twitched and jerked in the throes of uncontrollable sensation. "Rat-chet!" he panted.

His companion made a big show of faking cluelessness. "Something wrong?" he asked casually.

Jazz groaned helplessly when a third wave hit him, accompanied by a fresh, hot surge of lubricant gushing into his valve. To the Pit with all role-playing, this was too much. He plunged one hand between his quivering thighs, feeling for his external sensor node, fully intending to rub himself to a quick, much-needed climax.

The next thing he knew was a sharp pain in the back of his hand when Ratchet actually had the audacity to slap his fingers.

"I'm doing an examination here, if you please!" he rebuked.

Jazz whined in desperation when the movement jarred the speculum inside him, which resulted in a short moment of sweet pleasure-pain, but that was pretty much everything he got for his trouble. What was more, the instrument prevented his valve from contracting the way it longed to, and another wail escaped him when he realized he was denied even this smallest release.

A warm hand was placed on his leg, stroking gently, a touch clearly meant to soothe, not to arouse. "Shh," Ratchet murmured. "Relax."

Yeah, right... Jazz put as much sarcasm into his answering grunt as possible. That was what those Primus-damned medics always said when you were trembling and convulsing on one of their torture racks - to fragging _relax_...

It was incredibly, insanely difficult, but somehow, Ratchet's gentle touch helped him to calm down a bit, to focus on something other than just the overwhelming urge to overload _right now_. Eventually, and to his own amazement, Jazz realized that he had actually regained a certain measure of control over his neural net. He took a klik or two to simply concentrate on his frame, on recalibrating his systems and regulating his engine rating as best as he could. The heat between his legs was no longer coming in surges, but had settled into a steady, tingling glow that was beginning to feel strangely comfortable.

Also, with that warmth seeping slowly into the rest of his body, it became a lot easier to release the pressure from his hydraulics, and the sensation made him sigh softly.

"Good," Ratchet whispered.

Jazz let his head roll to the side to give his companion a languid smile.

"Hey, Doc," he murmured. "Dunno if it's important, but... y'know, things are startin' to get quite hot down there..."

"Is that so?" The touch on his leg immediately turned into an alluring caress, accompanied by a sharp flare of Ratchet's energy field. "Well, perhaps I should have a closer look, then."

Jazz watched him contentedly through a half-dimmed visor until his spark gave a happy little jump when Ratchet maneuvered the colposcope into place. He breathed a soft groan as he offlined his visual sensors, feeling the warmth of the instrument's lights on his inner thigh plates, but the sensation paled against the mere thought of Ratchet sinking his gaze so deeply into his intimate circuitry. There were some clicking sounds as the medic adjusted the instrument's settings, and for a split astrosecond, Jazz swore he could actually feel Ratchet's optics penetrate the tender, wet metal between his legs. His valve shuddered in longing at the thought, reacting with a renewed trickle of lubricant, and Jazz' engine revved as he wondered what _that_ might look like through the colposcope.

"Hm," he heard Ratchet say, "I don't see anything amiss. Perhaps you just need some cooling down."

A gentle draught of air caressed his naked valve, and Jazz onlined his visor just in time to see Ratchet lean forward and slowly, sensuously drag his glossa over the wet opening.

Jazz' backstruts formed a graceful arch as he bucked into the touch in an attempt to get as close to the questing appendage as possible, releasing a long, deep groan of relief. Oh Primus, yes... Ratchet's arms wrapped around his thighs, hands stroking his pelvic unit, his sides, his abdominal plating; but his focus clearly was on his oral activities, if the way he buried his faceplates into Jazz' interface array was anything to go by. His glossa traced tender little circles around the rim, then delved in deeply to taste the mixture of fluids there while firmly seeking out the most receptive sensor nodes.

Somewhere along the way, Jazz became dimly aware that he was moaning like a third-class pleasure drone under the gentle intrusion, but couldn't really bring himself to care about that right now. Instead, his hands came up to cradle his lover's head, pressing him closer, silently urging him to go deeper... yes... please... more...

Ratchet changed tactics, then, his caresses alternating between soft, teasing flicks against the external sensor node and deep, probing thrusts, and Jazz keened helplessly as he trembled under the sensual assault. Ratchet was sinfully good at this, and his patience was slowly but surely beginning to wear thin. It was too much, the charge in him too heavy, he couldn't last...

"Please!" he panted over the roar of his cooling fans. "Please, Ratchet!"

Thankfully, Ratchet seemed to understand that the game had turned serious, at least for now. He reached up to take Jazz' hand in a firm grasp and interlaced their fingers before he closed his lips around the external sensor node and started to suck, hard and fast and in a rhythm that somehow matched the frantic pulsing of Jazz' spark.

Overload was sharp and strong, wrenching a staticky shout from Jazz' vocalizer as he stiffened and jerked under the impact of the too-intense sensations. The charge in him surged and peaked and rushed into his circuitry as a wave of painfully pleasurable heat that left him weak and shuddering while his HUD flashed red with warnings. His energy field lashed out on its own accord, searching, only to be met and tenderly enfolded by Ratchet's own. The medic hadn't stopped in his ministrations so as to not interrupt Jazz' pleasure, but the touches had become much gentler now and softened even further as the aftershocks of the climax began to slowly ebb away.

With the last tingles shivering through his exhausted systems, Jazz found himself coming to the hazy conclusion that it was probably a good thing Ratchet was holding him so tightly, one arm wrapped around the saboteur's pelvic unit and their fingers still firmly tangled together. Otherwise, he might very well have melted into a puddle of happily satisfied goo.

He onlined his visor to glance down as Ratchet gave his valve one last, tender lick and then lifted his face to lean his head against Jazz' thigh. His lips curved into a smirk as he licked away some lingering traces of fluid, and Jazz answered with a lazy smile of his own while his thumb gently stroked Ratchet's knuckles.

"You're so good to me, Doc," he breathed.

Ratchet's optics flashed brightly.

"Don't thank me yet," he purred. "We're only halfway through."

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><p><em>To be continued...<em>


End file.
